Why The Hell Shouldn't I Run Away

Afterward, I Curl Around Her. We Lie In Silence Until Darkness Falls, And Then, Haltingly, She Begins To Talk...she Speaks Without Need Or Even Room For Response, So I Simply Hold Her And Stroke Her Hair. She Talks Of The Pain, Grief, And Horror Of The Past Four Years; Of Learning To Cope With Being The Wife Of A Man So Violent And Unpredictable His Touch Made Her Skin Crawl And Of Thinking, Until Quite Recently, That She'd Finally Managed To Do That. And Then, Finally, Of How My Appearance Had Forced Her To Realize She Hadn't Learned To Cope At All.

So What If I'm Ninety-three? So What If I'm Ancient And Cranky And My Body's A Wreck? If They're Willing To Accept Me And My Guilty Conscience, Why The Hell Shouldn't I Run Away With The Circus?

Hey! Shouts Camel. There Ain't No Woman In The World Worth Two Bottles Of Whiskey!

Sometimes When You Get Older — And I’m Not Talking About You, I’m Talking Generally, Because Everyone Ages Differently — Things You Think On And Wish On Start To Seem Real. And Then You Believe Them, And Before You Know It They’re Part Of Your History, And If Someone Challenges You On Them And Says They’re Not True — Why, Then You Get Offended Because You Can’t Remember The First Part. All You Know Is That You’ve Been Called A Liar.

They Grew Fat And Happy--the Horses, Not The Children, Or Marlena For That Matter.